


Of Clytie and Apollo

by wildarcana15



Series: It's All Greek To Me [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bisexual Dean Winchester, Competitive Dean Winchester, Dean also thinks he's a sunflower, Dean is not okay with that, Dean thinks Sam is better at sex than him, Dom Sam Winchester, Don't copy to another site, Flirting, Hook-Up, Introspection, M/M, Multi, POV Dean Winchester, Pansexual Sam Winchester, Sub Dean Winchester, because he doesn't know what BDSM roles are so he makes up his own thoughts on it, idk how to tag y'all i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 20:21:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17567324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildarcana15/pseuds/wildarcana15
Summary: Dean's noticed that Sam's better at sex than he is - not that he's been looking, or checking. Honest.Dean spends some time figuring out why, concludes that he's a sunflower, and proceeds to get spectacularly laid.Sam notices.It ends happily for all parties.





	Of Clytie and Apollo

Dean’s good at sex. He knows he is; hell, in the past he’s been a literal pro. He’s got solid evidence that he’s really fucking good, in paper if not on it.

So it makes it exponentially more frustrating that Sam’s obviously better.

Oh, it’s subtle. Dean wouldn’t notice it, if he wasn’t looking, because they’re ‘unhealthily codependent’ and he’s been interested in monitoring, aiding and abetting his little brother’s sex life since he was old enough to have one. But he is looking, and the evidence is right there, materialising in the mornings after Sammy’s actually decided to get some.

That’s the first thing he realised. 

Dean’s got game, sure; he flirts and works bars in a way that’s almost entirely second nature. But even he, the great Dean Winchester, strikes out occasionally.

Sammy doesn’t strike out.

He doesn’t obviously look to get laid half as often as Dean, which might account for some of the success rate skew. But Dean can’t help but observe how, if Sammy wants to get laid, he inevitably does. God only knows how, because he doesn’t pull any of the classic lines, he doesn’t push his luck, and he doesn’t even start the conversation half the time.

And yet, by the end of a night when Sammy’s after sex, he’s got someone pinned to the motel room wall while Dean sneaks off to spend the night with another chick, or his Baby.

That brings him to the other thing. Sam doesn’t really go after people - or at least, not in any way Dean recognises. He sits, or stands, he drinks his drinks and somehow, somewhere along the way, the people Sam wants flock to him.

It’s like he’s a magnet, with his smiling dimples and the shy flick of his eyes as he looks up at people he likes. He’s artful in his seemingly effortless seduction. He flirts softly, his lashes kind of long for a guy, his posture demure in a way a six foot four man should not be able to be. He doesn’t bother with anything so blatant as a proposition. He  _ implies _ , his eyes intent and dark with promises that have such weight they’re like gravity to anyone he cares to ensnare.

He seems to not even have to try, to get the aura of ‘sexy with a hint of danger’ that Dean has to perform to achieve. 

Dean’s version of sexy is roguish charm, humour and charisma. He’s dangerous because the people he fucks know in the back of their minds he’ll break their hearts but give them a damn good orgasm for it.

Sam’s version of sexy is quiet confidence, intelligence and mystery. He’s dangerous because he takes what should be threatening and turns it into pure, unadulterated allure. It’s unfairly effective.

It’s not just the success rate, though.

It’s how the girls and guys he takes to bed act, before and after.

Dean knows he’s hot - it’s not conceit, it’s just being self-aware about his effect on others. When he gets to take someone home, they’re eager, hands get put in places they shouldn’t in public, and it’s almost always good, moderately dirty fun. The ones he like best even get a bit assertive with it, straddle him and scratch up his back or bite his lips and skin into bruises he loves to show off the days after it’s over.

When Sammy gets someone, though, it’s a whole different league.

It’s like he puts them under a spell, except Dean knows his brother far better than to think that of him. Because he notices these things, because yes, unhealthily codependent, whatever - he gets to see it progress over the night.

They start out casually interested; attention caught by Sam’s unchoreographed, elegant movements, the way light scatters across his skin and hair. Dean can’t blame them for being rapidly drawn in; Sammy’s hypnotising to look at, and theoretically he’s been desensitised by their proximity. Sam’s eyes are fascinating, ever-shifting pools of teasing possibilities, and the way Sam has of licking at the edge of his glass or bottle to clean it after drinking should probably be illegal. 

He’s absolutely deadly if he gets his hands on a reason to lick his fingers. Dean’s watched a guy get hard while Sam licked condensation drops from his beer off his fingers. He’s willing to admit he’s whimpered, once or twice, when Sam’s worked someone up with his coy act and then talks to them, utterly unaffected, as he slides a hand up their thigh, smirking like a fucking cat with the cream when they begin to falter.

The point is, Sam bends them to his will with less than the effort it would take for him to raise his pinky finger. By the end of the night, the person he wants is latching on to his every movement, fixated and yearning beautifully for anything Sam wants to give.

And damn, does Sammy give.

Sam kisses like its his last day alive and the only way he has a chance of surviving is by having his way with his partner’s lips. He gets demanding, and what with all the build-up, his partners end up yielding, pliant, and so needy Dean’s seen a whole lot more of Sam than he’d ever thought he’d have to.

Not that Sam seems to mind it. The fucker once  _ winked _ at Dean as he tried to discreetly snag his own box of condoms on his way out of their room.

Dean manages to never quite stick around long enough for it to become utterly awkward. He sees the just-before moments, and all too often he sees a little more of the making-out stage than he really wants to. He knows Sammy gets a little controlling, because he dominates pretty much every kiss, and he’s so damn tall he can manhandle pretty much anyone with ease.

But he remains blissfully ignorant of the section between the making out and the well-fucked-morning-after stage - the stage he runs into that really cinches the deal of knowing Sam’s just straight up better at this than he is.

Dean’s no stranger to the walk of shame, from either end. He’s had plenty of goodbye kisses, seeing people out of the door, or leaving himself, usually missing a sock or his underwear.

When he’s slept with someone they both come out happy, he likes to think. Content, and exceedingly well-satisfied. Satiated, if you wanted to call it that. But, with a few exceptions, it’s almost always just that - no residual longing beyond lazy pleasure, no sighs except maybe mildly regretful ones because one more night would have been hot as hell but just a shade too irresponsible. Hell, if he’s honest, he’s the one feeling and looking more wistful and vulnerable, a solid portion of the time - and definitely after the best nights.

Sam’s the opposite. He radiates certainty, like it’s only right that he got laid, and the people he sleeps with -

They’re all half-dazed with leftover lust, clinging kisses and then accepting and grateful even when he gently pries them away from him. They linger and drink in as much of Sam as they can get, like they can’t help themselves, like they’re a sunflower and he’s the sun. And they walk away from Sam’s sweet, firm dismissal and they thank him for it.

Sometimes Dean’s fucks have thanked him, sure. But never like  _ that _ .

So yeah. Apparently his little brother is some kind of sex god.

It’s not like he’s jealous - hell, he’s proud. Sure, it’s sort of weird, watching people get all gooey over the kid he had to coach through talking to his first crush. But he’s been encouraging Sam to get some from the day it became a reasonable activity, so really it’s his own fault, anyway.

Okay. Maybe he’s a little jealous.

Dean can’t shake the feeling that he’s missing something vital about the dynamics between who he sleeps with and himself. Either Sammy’s just that good at sex, that much better, or there’s something else he’s missing.

His ego says it’s obviously just something else, and his gut tells him it’s entirely possible it’s both.

He tries to take stock of how Sam approaches sex, compared to him.

There’s the obvious route of how often they each want it, but Dean dismisses that as mostly unimportant. The difference is in what happens when it does happen, not how often it does.

At some point, he’s struck by the notion that, while Sam doesn’t take control of the situation right off the bat, he always ends up with all the cards. He doesn’t bother to give his partners any leverage on him, he just takes theirs and then takes his pleasure, in a way both parties apparently enjoy a great deal.

It’s strange to him, because for Dean, half the point of sex is that he gets to offer himself up.

At some point a good while later, he realises the parallel, and nearly curses up a blue streak out loud.

Sam’s the sun, burning and dangerous and hotter than sin. He likes to wrap people up and have his way with them, have them soak him in and relishes the reliance.

Dean’s a fucking sunflower.

He loves it. He really, truly does, and he hates that he loves it quite so much. Because he’s thought about it now, he notices it every time. He finds a girl or guy or someone in between or neither, and he gravitates to them. He likes their spark, or their smile, and offers himself up to worship their rays and bask in it, and lets them use each other pleasurably until his world, and theirs, have been suitably rocked. And he locks down on the wanting more after, because he’s always thought that’s just an inevitable, natural part of the process - wanting more, because it was damn good sex.

And maybe it’s in part because it is natural, to want more of a good thing. But it’s also because he’s a goddamn sunflower.

It’s one hell of a perspective shift.

He’s not half so weirded out by Sam’s sexual escapades anymore. Because he’s started trying to track the comparative quality by comparing his own fucks to how  _ Sammy _ looks after, instead of Sam’s partners.

And it’s a rather flattering change.

Because yeah, Sam’s partners tend to leave looking pretty mind-blown. But compared to how Sam looks after - and don’t get Dean wrong, he looks really good - Dean’s lays look better. There’s a looseness to them that Sam doesn’t ever seem to get, and they have a languid ease to them when they kiss him goodbye. Like they’ve fucked through every single knot of tension, and Dean’s the one who gave them that.

The validation of finally understanding how better to measure his skills makes his success spiral even higher. The fact he doesn’t feel the need to outdo Sam anymore has made him even better, and he even catches Sam sometimes, staring a little as he lets some girl use his hair to tug him onto the motel bed with her. He winks at Sam as he retreats with his own packet of condoms, and Dean’s thoroughly smug about it for at least an entire week.

Dean’s feeling pretty good about it all, really. He’s got things worked out in his head, and he’s content.

Which is why he’s surprised when Sammy flips the script.

Dean would have been happy with what he had. He really, truly would. He hadn’t been trying to get Sam’s attention with his new shift in mindset, or the competition Sammy’s unwittingly been entered in.

But Dean would be lying if he said it wasn’t one hell of a perk.

Sammy, turning his full attention, his full force of mind, onto Dean; the way his eyes make sinful promises from beneath his heavy lids. How this time, it’s  _ Dean _ getting hard just from the obscene way Sam licks ice-cold water off his fingers,  _ Dean’s _ chest Sam’s large hand rests against, firm and solid.

Dean knows his role, but he’s got nothing on the kid; he’s trapped burning under his skin from the blistering heat of his Sammy’s touch as he crowds Dean against their motel room wall.

Sammy’s fingers are twisted into Dean’s hair, his lips searing lines down Dean’s eagerly tilted neck, caging Dean, locking him into the pleasure.

And Dean can’t do anything but welcome it, feel it, love it, and  _ give _ .

He lets Sammy take from him; he’d let him steal the last breath from his lungs if he wanted it.

And Sammy’s offering up urgent, deep growls of possession, fingers bruise-tight and brilliant on his skin, and it’s as wonderful and overwhelming as he’s ever dreamed.

Dean drinks in everything Sam’s willing to give, takes the love and the pleasure and the fragmented, sharp edges of pain with it.

He gets to wear the bites and scratches all day, and feel Sam’s body wrapping around him, moulding to him like that’s how they were always meant to be as he stakes his claim and Dean lets himself be Sam’s.

So yeah, Dean’s a sunflower, and Sammy’s the sun.

And he’s pretty fucking okay with that.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not even sure what this is, honestly. I hope it's enjoyable!
> 
> Comments make me happier than Sam and Dean are by the end of this fic! <3
> 
> PS: the title is a reference to the myth of Clytie and Apollo, where Clytie turns into a sunflower so she can stare and and drink in Apollo's rays of sunshine forever. Dean thinks he's Clytie in this, basically.


End file.
